


some turn to dust or to gold

by chillydown



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, minor mention of Wellington, seriously he shows up for a sentence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 08:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown/pseuds/chillydown
Summary: Throughout his life, Jonathan Strange reflects on the idea of a legacy.





	some turn to dust or to gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).

“I am sorry, you know,” Jonathan Strange said one morning, apropos of nothing, as he and his wife sat down together for breakfast.

Arabella raised an eyebrow, curious as to what this apology was for (because for all that she loved seeing her husband’s enjoyment with magic, there were times where it caused more trouble than it was worth.) “What is it this time?” she gently teased.

“Nothing specific,” Strange quickly interjected, hoping to assuage some fears. “I’m simply speaking generally. When we were married, I doubt you thought our lives would end up like this. Most wedding vows do not take into account the possibility that the husband will be instrumental in reviving English magic. And, if I may speak for you, on our wedding day I doubt either of us thought that I might end up in a history book.”

That eyebrow lowered and Arabella’s expression softened. Quietly, she reached out to touch her husband’s hand. The small gesture took Strange by surprise as he looked up to take in her gentle smile.

“I will admit that when I asked you to get a profession, I was thinking something less important. Perhaps a tailor?” Strange let out a small little laugh at the idea of him as a tailor. It seemed positively ludicrous now. Nevertheless, Arabella kept talking. “Neither of us could have predicted the way our lives turned out. All we have to do is continue on.” 

There was the briefest hint of tiredness on Arabella’s face, quickly replaced by a mirror of Strange’s wry smile as she continued to tease her husband. “Besides, it is quite presumptuous to think you might end up in a history book.”

In response, Strange gave Arabella a little shrug. “Presumptuous? Perhaps. But I suspect it will happen.”

And though he would never admit it to her, a little part of Strange yearned for it to happen.

-

“Take a look, Merlin,” Wellington said, clapping the magician on the shoulder. There was a grimness to his tone that the words couldn’t hide. “This is the stuff of history.”

The stuff of history turned out to be composed of wounded men, overturned earth, charred buildings and a muddy, water-logged city. It was corpses and the dreadful spike of recognition whenever Strange spotted one with a familiar face. It was the smell of gunpowder that lingered on his clothes. The stuff of history was the dead Neapolitans still haunting his dreams.

If this was the stuff of history, Strange wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of it.

-

“Mister Lascelles heard back from the printers,” Norrell remarked, with a casualness that had to be purposeful. Idly, Strange looked up from his book, carefully trying to force his face into an expression he hoped was neutral and less his default expression whenever Norrell mentioned his book: looking like he swallowed a lemon. “The book should be published soon.”

“That’s good,” Strange responded with a forced nonchalant tone, as he dog-eared one of the pages of the book he was reading. “At this rate, all of Europe will know of your magical theories.”

Norrell, who had been about to reprimand Strange for doing something as horrible as dog-earing pages, suddenly turned a funny shade of pale at Strange’s words. “Ah, all of Europe?”

Strange gave him a quizzical look in return. Had the other magician not thought of that? Of course all of Europe would know! The continent knew what he had done in the Peninsula. France dealt with those ships made of water. They were reviving English magic, it should be obvious that the book would spread past English borders! Why was his teacher acting like this was something new?

When Strange spoke again, it was with careful precision. “Of course. I suspect families will take copies with them when they go on holiday, post a copy to friends overseas, et cetera. After all, it is practically the only publicly accessible book on magic.”

That last statement was accompanied by a pointed look, one that Norrell completely ignored. The other magician simply responded with “I...see.”

Norrell spent the rest of that day in a state of slight discombobulation. Occasionally, Strange could hear him mutter ‘all of _Europe_’ under his breath, a fact which vexed him tremendously. Shouldn’t Norrell be pleased about the book’s reception? Strange would have been pleased if his name became widespread.

Wouldn’t he?

-

Memories bobbed up and down in Strange’s mind like boats on a river. How foolish of him to think that he could be forgotten! How ridiculous of him to hesitate at joining history! No, he had no choices now. That fiend had seen to it.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” Strange yelled into the darkness. He broke out into cruel laughter, which soon turned into a coughing fit. Doubled over in pain, Strange felt the taste of bile creeping up into his throat. He continued to cough, unlodging a wet wad of something from the back of his throat before he stood back up.

“You’ve made it so my legacy is madness! Well, my fine fellow, I shall not let that stand.” He knew the fairy must be listening. The darkness had told him as much, whispering into his mind _he is here, he is watching, he will see you fail._

Rubbish. If Strange was going to fail, he was going to fail on his own terms, not those dictated by some puffed-up white haired fool of a fairy. He already had an idea in his mind, something half-formed yet slowly taking shape. All he had to do was to craft it. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed. Somewhere in his mind, Strange set himself aright.

“Come,” he commanded, gesturing to the bird. Almost obediently, the raven flapped towards him, perching on Strange’s arm. Strange could feel the bird’s talons pierce his skin but, oddly enough, whatever pain it must have caused was flying away, flickering in tune to the candle in his mind. He looked over at the bird and, for a brief second, the two met eyes. Perhaps it was encouragement? Perhaps it was the madness talking. After all, Strange knew he was quite mad. But there was something in the bird’s glance that steeled his soul.

“Come,” he repeated, as he walked over towards a mirror. “I have a legacy to create.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Fall Out Boy's "Centuries" for the 300bpm exchange.


End file.
